Do you know what the most beautiful part about your writing is?
It's your humanity. It shows up in every line.
You show your highs and your lows, and everything in between. The loneliness, the lostness that you felt, the hope when you met Steve, and the melancholy that came over when you knew that you would part again.
You felt the full breadth of the human experience in a day.
I see the powerful change unfolding as you take this walk, and there's so much humor in it too.
Seeing you eating a croissant, I just started chuckling. There's nothing more human than that—stuffing your face—and yet you put it out here for all of us to see. Sleeping with snoring bodies all around you with zero privacy. All of it shows the walk for what it is:
To learn how to be human.
Thank you for taking us along this journey, and now you've given me the bug as well!
Mitch, your words are so kind and validating as always (and GENEROUS), and if yours is the only comment I ever receive on this post -- I'm good! That's everything I wanted to express, and if I can communicate it with any accuracy to just one person, I am a happy writer, person, and peregrina. :-)
Really, do we want anything more than to be recognized for our humanity? I don't. Not anymore. "Success," "having it together," "things going great" ... all of that distances me from every other human who is just trying to figure out what it all means and where the joy is (including myself). I laughed as I posted that unflattering croissant pic because it's exactly who I was at that moment (and a lot of other moments since). And I swear I really did say those words out loud "you got this." I couldn't believe myself.
Every day on the Camino was different but I did feel those things every day, and I still do. I just recognize them now as part of the human condition. And it makes it so much easier to see the humanity in others. And in the end, that is the antidote for loneliness as we live these disconnected, digital, status-driven lives. Spotting that evidence of humanity in each other. Whispering "I see you" even if they can't hear you. On the Camino, you can say that out loud and it echoes for all to hear. It's a bit harder to do this in everyday life, but it's my lodestar. And when other people see me -- as you have done -- well, I've lived a long life and done a number of things, but after all is said and done, I think that's the whole point of it. To see and be seen. In our humanity. For me personally, there's no greater meaning to life than that.
(Spoiler alert: that's what the ache is all about. I hope you keep reading, but I came to recognize through out my Camino that that's what I had been aching for, my entire life, all along. And I found it there and I have to look harder for it now, but that's the ache. And that's how you soothe it. To see and be seen).
"I think that's the whole point of it. To see and be seen. In our humanity. For me personally, there's no greater meaning to life than that."
Amen.
That's all there is to it: we all just want to be seen. Our digital lives remove that, so we can't be seen in each other because we have to look through a screen first.
It abstracts all the beauty of a face filled with love and kindness.
It's funny that at the end of the day, it's not about the money or the amount of friends or the status or any of that shit. At the end of the day, we just want to have a group of people that see who we are, and we see them in kind. All of us, seeing each other in our eyes. Damn, that's a beautiful vision.
Thank you as always my friend. I could converse with you for hours, and I know you could too!
Rebecca, “find my way back to the Way” carries the whole day: the empty streets of Pamplona, the ache that walking can move through, Steve’s familiar face, the Hill of Forgiveness opening into sky, and the sagging bunk that somehow feels exactly right. The piece honors pilgrimage as lived disorientation before it becomes meaning, with friendship, yellow arrows, wildflowers, stone cairns, and dinner-table strangers slowly returning you to yourself. “I got this” feels earned by the end, less as bravado than as the quiet recognition that the trail has begun carrying you while you learn how to keep walking. Grateful for the honesty, humor, and spaciousness in this chapter of the Camino.
Kevin, how did I forget to thank you for your comment? So kind and such a careful and thoughtful read. You get it. Yes, that is a good description: “pilgrimage as a lived disorientation before it becomes meaning.” That is exactly what I am trying to show. Thank you for understanding and sharing!
Rebecca, your return to the comment makes the exchange feel complete. When a writer says, “you get it,” the reader receives a rare confirmation that the attention reached the intention beneath the page. That recognition turns commentary into companionship and gives the work another place to be faithfully held. Thank you for coming back with such warmth and for affirming the care behind my reading.
Oh my goodness, yes. And "commentary into companionship." Perhaps that is the promise of social media but it is so rarely fulfilled, isn't it? Yet I feel it here. Maybe it is because we are all writers at heart (which says a lot about a person, even beyond the fact that they write).
I confess I do miss a few comments as they appear and disappear in my feed and I always feel badly when that happens. I admire your engagement with numerous writers -- you always elevate and show up for people and it means more than you know. Or, I suspect you DO know, and that's why you do it. Thank you again, Kevin, for being one of the beings on this platform that makes it the wonderful and alive place that it is.
Rebecca, your words make me think about attention as a form of stewardship within a platform built for speed. The feed will always outrun any one person; what matters is the care that appears when we find one another and choose to linger. Each thoughtful exchange becomes a small act of resistance against the disposability social media can create. Thank you for naming that possibility so generously and for reminding me why careful engagement is worth the time.
Seems to be so, Cortney! The walking remains the constant. It takes us to new places and thoughts even as our minds get caught on the snags of what we currently struggle with. And it can be hard to walk alone through the middle of it. But if it doesn’t move, we can.
Metabolising loneliness is such a big part of the Camino. Meeting, connecting, parting. Learning to receive those fleeting exchanges and let them buoy you up. And coming home to offer a kind word to the elderly neighbour, the sullen child, knowing you may be the only person that talks to them all day. It's a trip.
Yes, so much. Maybe it's because you can get so emptied by the exhaustion and personal struggles within, but when you are seen on the Way, you REALLY feel seen, and it means so much in those moments. So much. Maybe because you're so present. And yes, you come home and realize that you are surrounded by non-pilgrims, but they are still human just the same, just perhaps not so mutual or open. And offering them that kind word it part of carrying that spirit forward into your everyday life. Remembering what it felt like when you were the one who really needed that, and passing it forward.
I appreciated those sage words that the pilgrim shared when you asked him about walking the Camino multiple times, and he turned it back to you. There is a lot to sit with in that response and interaction.
These powerful words "If I stop walking, it just sits there and hurts. If I walk, at least I’m moving. And that’s better than just sitting with that pang", really resonated with me. A brilliant way to describe the ache of stagnation. Choosing to walk and to travel solo is incredibly brave, powerful and inspirational at any stage of life. It’s a beautiful reminder that moving forward - even when it feels daunting - is always better than staying stuck in place. I look forward to catching up with your travels 🙏
First, I am so happy I read this in the comfort of my home and not while traveling, because I savored every word in the piece.
There's a real bravery in starting with a croissant stuffed in your face on a deserted street, before the view, before the sculpture, before any of the moments that make for a good photo.
You let us see you at your least composed first, and that set the tone for everything after.
I really felt the description of you reaching out. The Irish woman, the Canadian father and daughter, then Steve, none of it forced, all of it just a person trying not to walk alone.
That's not really about the Camino.
That's what all of us do, anywhere, any day, just usually without four hundred miles of open road to make it so visible. You happened to be doing it in a place with yellow arrows and stone cairns, but the ache and the reaching are the same ones we carry at home.
The stones with Philip and Lina's names, a stranger's love, and you let yourself feel it anyway.
Geri, I had to sit with your response for at least a day. You know that feeling when somebody sees you and you feel a little transparent and vulnerable, and then their pure kindness washes into you? You just want to quietly and privately take it in.
You kind of caught me out here, lol. It's a story about the Camino but it is not really about the Camino; the Camino is just the setting for it. I hadn't thought of it that way but you see it and I feel stronger and braver as a result. Thank you my friend. Thank you.
I love that you sat with it for a day. That tells me it landed right.
You already knew it wasn't really about the Camino, you just hadn't said it out loud yet. That's the gift of your writing, and now you get to see it too.
Thank you for trusting us with the croissant and the ache and all of it. Here's to feeling stronger and braver, my friend.
Do you know what the most beautiful part about your writing is?
It's your humanity. It shows up in every line.
You show your highs and your lows, and everything in between. The loneliness, the lostness that you felt, the hope when you met Steve, and the melancholy that came over when you knew that you would part again.
You felt the full breadth of the human experience in a day.
I see the powerful change unfolding as you take this walk, and there's so much humor in it too.
Seeing you eating a croissant, I just started chuckling. There's nothing more human than that—stuffing your face—and yet you put it out here for all of us to see. Sleeping with snoring bodies all around you with zero privacy. All of it shows the walk for what it is:
To learn how to be human.
Thank you for taking us along this journey, and now you've given me the bug as well!
Mitch, your words are so kind and validating as always (and GENEROUS), and if yours is the only comment I ever receive on this post -- I'm good! That's everything I wanted to express, and if I can communicate it with any accuracy to just one person, I am a happy writer, person, and peregrina. :-)
Really, do we want anything more than to be recognized for our humanity? I don't. Not anymore. "Success," "having it together," "things going great" ... all of that distances me from every other human who is just trying to figure out what it all means and where the joy is (including myself). I laughed as I posted that unflattering croissant pic because it's exactly who I was at that moment (and a lot of other moments since). And I swear I really did say those words out loud "you got this." I couldn't believe myself.
Every day on the Camino was different but I did feel those things every day, and I still do. I just recognize them now as part of the human condition. And it makes it so much easier to see the humanity in others. And in the end, that is the antidote for loneliness as we live these disconnected, digital, status-driven lives. Spotting that evidence of humanity in each other. Whispering "I see you" even if they can't hear you. On the Camino, you can say that out loud and it echoes for all to hear. It's a bit harder to do this in everyday life, but it's my lodestar. And when other people see me -- as you have done -- well, I've lived a long life and done a number of things, but after all is said and done, I think that's the whole point of it. To see and be seen. In our humanity. For me personally, there's no greater meaning to life than that.
(Spoiler alert: that's what the ache is all about. I hope you keep reading, but I came to recognize through out my Camino that that's what I had been aching for, my entire life, all along. And I found it there and I have to look harder for it now, but that's the ache. And that's how you soothe it. To see and be seen).
"I think that's the whole point of it. To see and be seen. In our humanity. For me personally, there's no greater meaning to life than that."
Amen.
That's all there is to it: we all just want to be seen. Our digital lives remove that, so we can't be seen in each other because we have to look through a screen first.
It abstracts all the beauty of a face filled with love and kindness.
It's funny that at the end of the day, it's not about the money or the amount of friends or the status or any of that shit. At the end of the day, we just want to have a group of people that see who we are, and we see them in kind. All of us, seeing each other in our eyes. Damn, that's a beautiful vision.
Thank you as always my friend. I could converse with you for hours, and I know you could too!
Rebecca, “find my way back to the Way” carries the whole day: the empty streets of Pamplona, the ache that walking can move through, Steve’s familiar face, the Hill of Forgiveness opening into sky, and the sagging bunk that somehow feels exactly right. The piece honors pilgrimage as lived disorientation before it becomes meaning, with friendship, yellow arrows, wildflowers, stone cairns, and dinner-table strangers slowly returning you to yourself. “I got this” feels earned by the end, less as bravado than as the quiet recognition that the trail has begun carrying you while you learn how to keep walking. Grateful for the honesty, humor, and spaciousness in this chapter of the Camino.
Kevin, how did I forget to thank you for your comment? So kind and such a careful and thoughtful read. You get it. Yes, that is a good description: “pilgrimage as a lived disorientation before it becomes meaning.” That is exactly what I am trying to show. Thank you for understanding and sharing!
Rebecca, your return to the comment makes the exchange feel complete. When a writer says, “you get it,” the reader receives a rare confirmation that the attention reached the intention beneath the page. That recognition turns commentary into companionship and gives the work another place to be faithfully held. Thank you for coming back with such warmth and for affirming the care behind my reading.
Oh my goodness, yes. And "commentary into companionship." Perhaps that is the promise of social media but it is so rarely fulfilled, isn't it? Yet I feel it here. Maybe it is because we are all writers at heart (which says a lot about a person, even beyond the fact that they write).
I confess I do miss a few comments as they appear and disappear in my feed and I always feel badly when that happens. I admire your engagement with numerous writers -- you always elevate and show up for people and it means more than you know. Or, I suspect you DO know, and that's why you do it. Thank you again, Kevin, for being one of the beings on this platform that makes it the wonderful and alive place that it is.
Rebecca, your words make me think about attention as a form of stewardship within a platform built for speed. The feed will always outrun any one person; what matters is the care that appears when we find one another and choose to linger. Each thoughtful exchange becomes a small act of resistance against the disposability social media can create. Thank you for naming that possibility so generously and for reminding me why careful engagement is worth the time.
This: “If I stop walking, it just sits there and hurts. If I walk, at least I’m moving. And that’s better than just sitting with that pang.”
This is life, isn’t it? Just keep moving forward.
Seems to be so, Cortney! The walking remains the constant. It takes us to new places and thoughts even as our minds get caught on the snags of what we currently struggle with. And it can be hard to walk alone through the middle of it. But if it doesn’t move, we can.
Metabolising loneliness is such a big part of the Camino. Meeting, connecting, parting. Learning to receive those fleeting exchanges and let them buoy you up. And coming home to offer a kind word to the elderly neighbour, the sullen child, knowing you may be the only person that talks to them all day. It's a trip.
Yes, so much. Maybe it's because you can get so emptied by the exhaustion and personal struggles within, but when you are seen on the Way, you REALLY feel seen, and it means so much in those moments. So much. Maybe because you're so present. And yes, you come home and realize that you are surrounded by non-pilgrims, but they are still human just the same, just perhaps not so mutual or open. And offering them that kind word it part of carrying that spirit forward into your everyday life. Remembering what it felt like when you were the one who really needed that, and passing it forward.
I appreciated those sage words that the pilgrim shared when you asked him about walking the Camino multiple times, and he turned it back to you. There is a lot to sit with in that response and interaction.
These powerful words "If I stop walking, it just sits there and hurts. If I walk, at least I’m moving. And that’s better than just sitting with that pang", really resonated with me. A brilliant way to describe the ache of stagnation. Choosing to walk and to travel solo is incredibly brave, powerful and inspirational at any stage of life. It’s a beautiful reminder that moving forward - even when it feels daunting - is always better than staying stuck in place. I look forward to catching up with your travels 🙏
Thank you Claire, and I’m looking forward to catching up with your abundant wisdom! I’m so glad to have you along for the journey!
First, I am so happy I read this in the comfort of my home and not while traveling, because I savored every word in the piece.
There's a real bravery in starting with a croissant stuffed in your face on a deserted street, before the view, before the sculpture, before any of the moments that make for a good photo.
You let us see you at your least composed first, and that set the tone for everything after.
I really felt the description of you reaching out. The Irish woman, the Canadian father and daughter, then Steve, none of it forced, all of it just a person trying not to walk alone.
That's not really about the Camino.
That's what all of us do, anywhere, any day, just usually without four hundred miles of open road to make it so visible. You happened to be doing it in a place with yellow arrows and stone cairns, but the ache and the reaching are the same ones we carry at home.
The stones with Philip and Lina's names, a stranger's love, and you let yourself feel it anyway.
I feel lucky to read your writing each week.
Geri, I had to sit with your response for at least a day. You know that feeling when somebody sees you and you feel a little transparent and vulnerable, and then their pure kindness washes into you? You just want to quietly and privately take it in.
You kind of caught me out here, lol. It's a story about the Camino but it is not really about the Camino; the Camino is just the setting for it. I hadn't thought of it that way but you see it and I feel stronger and braver as a result. Thank you my friend. Thank you.
I love that you sat with it for a day. That tells me it landed right.
You already knew it wasn't really about the Camino, you just hadn't said it out loud yet. That's the gift of your writing, and now you get to see it too.
Thank you for trusting us with the croissant and the ache and all of it. Here's to feeling stronger and braver, my friend.